


Borrow the Children

by empress9



Series: Impressions [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Child Soldiers, Cor Centric, Gen, Hurt Cor Leonis, War, Young Cor Leonis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26971534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress9/pseuds/empress9
Summary: Perhaps another contradiction, this. A fourteen year old Lieutenant, with orders to save as many grown men as he can from this theater of mayhem. Like playing soldier. But with real casualties.A wounded Cor takes stock of what it means to fight for Lucis.
Series: Impressions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997575
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh I'm sorry I haven't written in so long.... Ah dear me, it's been a weird year.
> 
> I just wanted to get back into writing somehow and I thought of this as a one-shot, but it might grow into something else.
> 
> With all my doubts about writing, it took writing from Cor's perspective for the first time to get me into it again. I do love this boy...
> 
> This is rather graphic (just straight whump who am I kidding) Just be warned...
> 
> Enjoy!

The thing about war, Cor thinks at least, is that it contradicts.

There’s fighting- nonstop, fast-paced, running, running, killing.

And then- _nothing_. (The moments he uses to catch his breath, hear his heartbeat again, to make sure.)

War is too much, then too little.

Cor can barely think straight, but he thinks he can find the rhythm.

Like now- A bomb blast has ruptured his left ear drum and just like that, the symphony of chaos is cut short.

It was loud- screaming, gunshots, bang, bang… now he can hear just the sounds inside him. A short gasping breath that he manages around all the dust. Blood pumping. Too fast. There’s ringing and he takes a second to roll his head about, blinking as if that would clear his ears, just to get his bearings back.

It’s a little moment of peace. A reflection on what it’s like to be alive in this death game. If just for the next second. 

His Captain is suddenly in his face, shouting (probably loudly, he thinks).

Her orders are scarcely heard, but Cor does that thing that the other infantrymen do that he hates: just nods his head along. Dumb and compliant. 

“Leonis!” This time he hears her shout a bit clearer. She’s got her hand wrapped up in his collar, tugging him so close her mouth nearly touches his earlobe.

“Yes sir!” His reply sounds foreign to him. Distant.

“Take the reserve unit and fall back. There’s another wave of these fuckers round the third district. Too many. Get ‘em clear, you understand?”

Cor nods but he means it this time. They were giving up. Not that there was a choice. But fuck.

His Captain takes a final second to level him a hard look in the eyes then a rough pat to the head. He’s still a kid after all.

Perhaps another contradiction, this. A fourteen year old Lieutenant, with orders to save as many grown men as he can from this theater of mayhem. Like playing soldier. But with real casualties.

Cor shakes his head again- maybe a final attempt to clear his still-ringing ears, maybe a sardonic nod to whichever fuck-twisted Astral is looking down on him in this moment, who knows…

It’s all shit. He grabs the nearest soldier to relay his orders. Screams above the sounds of gunfire, the ringing, fall back, _fall back._

They take him seriously at least.

With eyes scratchy and burning from the dust, Cor surveys the battlefield one last time before gathering the remaining troops and securing a route back to Lucis’s command post.

He just hopes Regis won’t give him that look. The one that says _I’m sorry I got you into all this_. It was Cor’s choice after all. And it’s his choice still, leading these men back to lick their wounds.

He thinks he gets it. Thinks it’s why he’s lasted this long. Immortal, they call him. He’s just lucky.

Because it _is_ just luck. And it’s why war contradicts.

Because he’s here now, running back with his unit. Retreating to safety. To live.

And a building explodes eleven feet from him.

It’s the rhythm of war that tosses him off his feet, and he’s flying- caught up in a moment of ambiguity.

It doesn’t make sense. Because it doesn’t have to.

Cor slams hard, so hard, onto the rocks. The moment of impact is enough to shatter his whole world. He feels it, his face cracking onto the hard surface. It’s shocking. And he tries to move his head just an inch. 

A mistake.

The world flickers. Then it’s just black.

-

He doesn’t so much as wake as roll back into it. It’s his ear that pulls him into consciousness. There’s an aching along the helix, like how sometimes he’d shove his head too much into the pillow while sleeping and wake up with a throbbing ear. Cor’s not laying on a pillow though. He tries to blink, but there’s pebbles in his face.

Another stabbing in his ear makes him cry aloud.

That’s when it hits him.

The real pain.

Cor knows he’s face first against the rocks. When he moves his mouth to cry, the excruciation that rips along his jaw is enough to shock him still.

If he makes a sound, he can’t hear it. Regardless of his busted ears- his world turns to static. Everything is lost in the cold, white agony that radiates from his lower face. 

He blinks because it’s all he can do. Every other move sends him grinding his face further into the dirt. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He thinks he’s screaming, he must be. He can’t move.

But Cor has to move. Because he starts choking.

There’s liquid pooling in his mouth. Blood. He shifts his head slightly to let it slide down his lips, but that just sends a lightning bolt through his skull. The pain is astonishing, and somehow he can’t quite grasp that it's happening to him. He tries to moan. Swallows instead.

Blood fills his whole mouth, his throat. He swallows again, instinctively, feels something hard at the back of his throat. He wants, no _needs_ to scream. 

Panic sets in. That ice cold grip that strangles slowly. First his hands, feet. Then he can’t feel his neck.

The jaw though. He can still feel the cracking pain of his lower mouth and panic has enough of a hold to make him desperately claw at it. He thinks for a second that his face has fallen off, just melted and pooled into the dirt along with his blood. But it’s still there. And so is the panic.

Cor thinks he might drown in his own blood if he doesn’t move. But his limbs are frazzled. His hand still cradles his jaw like a life-line.

A lurch of blood down his throat again sends him coughing, and well… he had to move sometime.

The rasping he makes just rips his mouth in a way that makes him think his jaw bone might really fall off after all. As he gags around his coughing, Cor feels his teeth grind in a way that’s just _wrong_. When the boy can finally breathe again, he finds himself running his tongue along the rows of teeth. Checking. There’s a sharp crack in one that snags on his tongue. One of his back molars is missing entirely and he’s now realizing what he’d swallowed before. ( _Finally lose all your baby teeth, Cori?_ A voice that sounds like Clarus flits into his mind). 

He manages to spit out a mouthful of blood, his jaw now so ravaged he can barely think. His head is a mess. Foggy, uncooperative. Still hijacked by panic.

A hand on his back startles him so much, he nearly chokes again.

“Lieutenant! Thank the gods!” His hearing is still fucked. The soldier at his back sounding like he was underwater. But it grounds Cor, at least a little bit. Pulls him back to reality.

A small sound escapes his mouth, and the soldier takes it as an invitation to attempt to haul Cor to his feet. The noise he makes this time is far more startling. A quick strangled scream and Cor regrets it immediately. Jaw splitting. His head lolls against the rock again. The world starts swaying too much.

“Shit, shit. You hurt? Where?” His savior doesn’t bother hiding his alarm.

“Mmmnn” He really shouldn’t try talking. But he must be some kinda sadist. 

The soldier’s now crouching around the front of him, hands uncertain.

“Mmngg.. face…” Cor manages that at least.

“Ok shit. Ok.” Not the most inspiring words, but with them Cor recognizes his rescuer as Corporal Jaharis.

“I need to turn you, Leonis. That ok?” Jaharis’s voice shakes but Cor won’t hold that against him. He’s a rookie. Not a bad guy either. Several years older than him of course.

Cor’s still laying on his stomach. He nearly nodded at Jaharis’s request, the idiot, but instead tries to tell him he can move him. He just coughs out more blood.

“No, don’t speak. I got you, ok?” Jaharis says. Then his hands are on Cor’s back again, steadier than his voice surprisingly. He gently turns the teen’s body, right hand cradling his battered skull.

Cor tries not to cry, really, but he can’t help it. The movement of lifting his head makes his vision splinter.

“You’re ok. I promise. I’mma get you outta here, ok?” Cor just gurgles in response. “Any other injuries, Lieutenant?”

Cor has to think about it. Now that he’s turned on his back, he realizes there’s a sharp twist in his collarbone. He’d been putting pressure on it before, so now the pain is aggravated. Surprisingly, his lower half feels ok. But when he tries to move his head to get a better look, the shockwave of agony nearly consumes him again.

He blinks hard and fast. Jaharis’s face swims in his vision, openly concerned.

Cor attempts to relay his injuries, but his jaw won’t let him. He can move his hands though, with only a slight twinge from his collar bone.

Jaharis looks down confused, but then it clicks.

The simple hand-signs they learned in basic training. Cor never thought they’d have much use. But he coils his fingers into the signs he remembers. His index fingers jab towards each other, then he points to his collar and his jaw.

“Ok, ok.” Jaharis nods. “Think I can move ya? Head too bad? Concussion?”

Cor just gives a thumbs up.

“Was that yes to all three?”

Another thumbs up. Jaharis actually laughs. “Ok, Astrals kid. I’ll take it slow alright. Lean on me now.”

Cupping the back of Cor’s neck, Jaharis gently gets the teen into an upright position.

“I got you. I got you.” It’s Jaharis’s words alone that keep Cor from slipping into insanity. Standing now, he can’t seem to balance. And his vision’s all fucked too; there’s blood dripping into his right eye. Everything ripples slightly, the world around him pushing and pulling to rhythm of his pain. 

Still, he tries to survey the scene.

If they were fucked before... now…

From what the boy can see, the rest of the town is up in flames. The troops he was saving all scattered in disarray. He risks losing consciousness again to swing his head around at the mayhem. He lurches into Jaharis’s shoulder, dribbling more blood from his mouth.

The boy twists his hands again. _How many?_

Jaharis won’t look him in the eyes. “C’mon Lieutenant, you’re wounded…”

Cor stands as resolute as he can. He sees his comrades attempting to salvage any remaining bodies (dead, alive, who knows...).

“C’mon, kid.” Jaharis tugs his arm, wrapping it around his back. They trudge through the carnage. Cor lolls his head (can’t help it really), trying to take in the details of those fallen around him. Whose boots… whose twisted ribcage…? Those closer to the building had little hope. Cor’s lucky. That’s all.

Still, he gurgles a horrible sound when they pass a particularly gruesome body. “C’mon. Don’t look, kid. Don’t look.”

Why Jaharis is trying to shield him from the atrocity is beyond Cor. The boy taps his chest indignantly and makes the hand sign for his rank. Jaharis chuckles sadly. “I know, Lieutenant."

Time seems to ripple along with Cor's vision. He doesn't know how long he'd been unconscious before either. Doesn't know what's actually happing to him, or just in his mind. That thing that happens when he's too far-gone in pain starts to take hold: he starts hearing voices, conversations that don't make sense (Regis calling _I'm sorry! I'm sorry!_ while cruelly poking a sharp finger into his jaw with every punctuation... _stop it_ , he thinks.... _just stop_ ). The hand on his back pushes him forward still. "We’re almost there.”

There’s a medical truck up ahead. Cor can barely make it out as they approach, eyesight compromised by blood and lethargy. He leans closer to Jaharis, he doesn’t know why.

The other soldier sighs deeply. Cor moves with the inflation of his chest, now nearly nestled into the man's underarm. 

“I know you outrank me, but fuck…” There’s something startlingly earnest in Jaharis’s voice. “You’re still a kid. A _child_. It’s... fucking sick.” A pause to let out a cruel laugh.

“I don’t want you to forget it, Leonis. What this fight took from you, ok? Not just your fucked up face. What it took from your godsdamn… youth? I don’t know. Your fucking... childhood. Ok? Just…” Cor’s grasp of reality is probably skewed, so it’s hard to keep track of Jaharis’s ranting. But he nods. The kind of nod he hates.

“Just don’t forget it, kid. Don’t forget the cost… alright, Leonis?” 

_Sure_ , he wants to say. But he doesn't. Can't. Just moves his hands to salute Jaharis. 

Cor lets himself be tipped into the back of the truck, medics grasping at him, pulling his body to make room for others, so many others.

He doesn’t understand Jaharis’s words then. Maybe he would. He doesn’t really care.

If he’s older, maybe. If he gets to be.

The boy lays crammed in the truck, praying to just slip into unconsciousness so he doesn’t have to hear the sounds.

He’s lucky. But he isn’t.

Cor feel tears on his own cheeks and he hates them. Hates how his ears still ring from the blast, but he can still hear the others. Hates how he sticks his godsdamn fingers in, the coward. He cries silently. Afraid. Alone. A child.

It’s war. And he hates it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cor's injuries are dealt with at the field hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This is some heavy shit (I really didn't know how this story was gonna go, but I'm just going with it)
> 
> My poor Cor ;_;
> 
> Anyway, graphic imagery ahoy! You've been warned.
> 
> Might do one more chap where he's reunited with regis & co, so stay tuned~
> 
> Enjoy!

Chaos is a sound.

It’s the squeaky wheels on the gurney that carries Cor to the field hospital. It’s the medics’ frantic calls, desperate, loud. It’s the empty screaming of a man who attempts to keep his blood from spilling on the floor. It’s the wet sound, splattering, when he doesn’t. 

Fingers still in his ears, Cor can’t escape it. (Chaos toys with him; it’s in the clicking sound his jaw makes when he tries to move it; it’s in his own head).

The boy keeps his eyes closed nonetheless.

He lets himself be pushed, prodded, shuffled along. He’s in a bed and he doesn’t know how he got there. Too focused on trying not to hear the sounds.

There’s a pattern to it, he supposes. The louder screams are followed by the medics yelling _move him into surgery, I need help over here, it’s too late_ … 

Cor will just wait his turn.

In the truck, they’d tied a blue ribbon around his arm, whatever that meant. A few questions were asked, as he attempted speech through his mangled mouth. Thankfully it isn’t bleeding much anymore. His jaw still hurts though. Real fucking bad. All the way up the side of his head, his ears. It’s starting to overwhelm him. But he supposes that others need help first. The louder ones.

Lost in his own fractured reality, the boy cranes his neck a bit, altering the perspective he’s currently stuck with: a view of a nurse covering the body across from him with a sheet. He doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to think about it (certainly won’t think about the soldier next to him in the truck, whose forearm dangled from the elbow as if held by a thread, jerking with every bump; Cor almost egging the driver on in his mind, a wicked hope that the next sharp turn would just rip the damn thing off for good). No he won’t think of that. Or how the ribbon on that lifeless arm was red, _red, red…_

Besides, he’s too caught up in his own pain to bother caring. The fire in his jaw keeps him from sleep unfortunately. Not that he’s even really awake, his mind using delusions to cope with the trauma.

He keeps thinking he sees Regis’s face in those around him. Blood-covered, wild eyed. Searching for him, maybe. He hopes not. Not here. Regis can’t be here. But Cor’s too fucked in the brain to recognize the surreality; he almost jumped out of his bed earlier to check on the sheet-covered body next to him. _It’s not him. It’s not him. But maybe..._

No, Regis is safe. And Cor doesn’t want him here anyway. Doesn’t want him worrying about him when everyone else is… fuck. The boy prods his broken tooth with his tongue just so he doesn’t have to think.

Some semblance of sleep consumes him, even so.

He dreams, or maybe it’s a memory, he doesn’t know. But his mom is there, and he points to his mouth, his missing tooth, and she smiles at him. Tells him he’d get a reward. _A shiny quarter, snuck under his pillow!_ Cor smiles too. Because the next day he’d go to the convenience store on the corner of the block. Buy himself a treat. Mom whispering _my lucky boy_. Smiling, wider than before. Gaping, black, _empty_. All her teeth are missing.

He jolts back into it. One hand clutched to his chest (he can barely breathe), the other grasping under his pillow, desperate. He doesn’t know why but there are tears running down his face. And there’s no shiny quarter in his hand when he pulls it back.

His jaw clicks again.

After some time, a medic comes to check on him.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

Cor just croaks. The medic grabs his chest, reaching for his tags. With a bit of a double-take (probably his rank), the medic scratches something onto a slip of paper, then clips it to the boy’s collar. Cor can’t look down that much; all he sees is Leonis,C and what must be a diagnostic of his condition. He’s left with an ice-pack though, and he holds it against his cheek, almost savoring the sharp burning-cold.

A little while later another nurse comes. This one’s got a look in his eyes that says _I’m not really here_. Cor can’t blame him. 

“Open up please.” At least he’s polite.

Cor tries his hardest to open his mouth to let him look, but _godsdamn_ it hurts. He whines a bit, embarrassed.

“Easy, just need to take a look.” The nurse’s fingers probe into his mouth, angling it open a touch more. Cor breathes harshly to cover his cry. Feels his throat clench. _Panic_.

His complaints are enough to alert the doctor, and the man leans closer, gauging the carnage of the boy’s fucked-up mouth whispering a careless _shit_ , and pulling back abruptly. “You get pain-killers yet, soldier?” 

Cor makes a _no_ sound in the back of his throat.

“Ok, ok,” the nurse sharply calls to someone passing by, grabs something off a cart as it’s pushed forward. “Can’t give you any potions I’m afraid. Not with that head injury. Also the break in your jaw will need to be set properly. We’ll get you set up for an x-ray as soon as we’re able. Take these.”

Nodding dumbly, Cor lets the medic tip something into his hands. “You ok to swallow?”

Cor doesn’t think so, and his first attempts are pitiful. Sputtering water and making his jaw creak horribly. He whines again.

“Easy, relax,” The medic guides him through it. “Slowly, relax your throat, soldier.”

The pills go down, thankfully. Cor’s left with a hideous stretched feeling in his mouth though, as he watches the medic move on to evaluate some other poor bastard.

Still feeling the sharp edges of panic, the boy does what he can to steady his breathing. _In, out, in out._ He barely notices when another medic comes to ask him more questions.

“Follow the light here.” In, out.

“Any nausea? Dizziness?” _Yes_. In, out, in.

“Trouble breathing?” In, in, _in_ …

“Steady, soldier.” An arm lifting him. “Kastria, let’s get him into radio, alright? You good to walk, kid?”

“Mmmn.”

“Come with me, soldier.”

Push, pull. In, out.

Cor blinks and he’s standing in front of a metal doorway.

“I don’t have all fucking day, soldier.” A gruff voice. Cor has to clear his eyes a bit, thinking the doctor inside was Cid for a second. Nope, a woman. “In with ya.” Might as well have been Cid.

Wobbling a bit as he detaches from the doorway, Cor is ushered forward in front of a large machine. The gruff doctor is asking him something, but he can’t seem to focus.

“Name, soldier!” It’s a bark and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s directed at him.

He takes another awkward moment to search for the answer. “Leonis, C.” His voice sounds deeper, muffled.

“Fuck’s sake…” The gruff doctor shakes him a bit, pulling him into the machine. “Kastria, get this one’s records. Move. Yes, you!” She means Cor and he has to shake his head again to clear his fogginess.

“Bite down.” His chin is thrust into the chamber of the x-ray machine. He tries to force his mouth around the small rod, but whimpers pathetically when it makes his jaw shift.

“Fucking today, soldier.”

“My jaw is broken,” Cor growls, but manages to slip the rod between his quaking teeth.

He’s left in the center of the machine, waiting, swaying on his feet a bit.

“Stay still, fuck's sake…” Female-Cid has as much courtesy as the real Cid.

The machine circles around Cor’s head, slowly, whirring. For a moment, the boy feels what might be an interlude of peace. Whirring, whirring. In, out, in. His mouth is clamped on the machine, but he can breathe around it, calming a bit. But slipping from reality all the same.

The apparatus clicks, and he shudders through a memory ( _Smile Cor! Nice and big!_ His mother with a disposable camera ushering him in front of the schoolyard, his first day of second grade; he remembers the mortification he felt when he looked down at his shoes, white with a pink ribbon (his mom picked them from the donation bin, they were the only ones in his size), _girls’ shoes_ , he doesn’t want to smile for his mom’s picture, but he does anyway, because he knows when she leaves he can rub his feet in the dirt to hide the pink…).

“Move! This way now.”

He still can’t see. Blinking up at the harsh fluorescent lights (his mom’s camera flash maybe; _I told ya, you don’t need ta turn the flash on outside mom_ …), he’s pushed into a chair as the impatient doctor grumbles more under her breath.

“Get that file, Kastria?” More grumbling as Cor tries to steady his breathing. “Let’s see here…”

At least the boy’s able to bring himself back a bit as he watches the doctor flash the x-ray of his teeth onto a lightscreen. Cor doesn’t know what his bones are supposed to look like, but even he can tell the picture looks fucked.

“ _Astrals_ … sheesh…Leonis, open up.” Fingers in his mouth again, he’s really starting to hate this, can’t even control the low growl he makes. “Leonis if you don’t stay still this is gonna hurt you more, fuck’s sake...”

He complies. The Doctor hovers over him; he can finally read her nametag: Dr. Peshqa. Foreign then. Not like him, Leonis, C, with his strong Lucian name. And strong Lucian will. “You can stop trying to bite my finger, son.”

Peshqa withdraws from his mouth, sliding in her chair to review the x-ray again, and then rummages through his military medical file.

A sudden huff, followed by more shuffling. “That can’t be right…Kastria, these the right files?” She keeps squinting at the x-rays of Cor’s teeth, then back at the file, then back at him, studying his face. “Third molars… fucking hell.”

Cor doesn’t know what it means, or what changes, but Peshqa is back at his side with a softer tone. “Ok…Cor, right? You’ve got a bad crack in that jaw of yers, son. We’re gonna set you up with what we can here, and my colleague and I are gonna do a quick procedure to wire your mouth shut for a bit, ok? I’m afraid the damage you’ve sustained to your mandible is enough to require further surgery. Once we get you shipped back to Lucis, we’ll get that arranged for you. Ok, Cor?”

He nods. The dumb nod.

“If you’ll come with me… Kastria, prep the tools, yeah, get him onto the bed there…”.

Cor doesn’t get why she’s gentler with him, but he doesn’t mind. It helps him with the anxiety heating in his chest at the thought of his mouth being _wired shut_. He doesn’t mind the way Peshqa gently pats his head to calm him either, or the _you’re alright now Cor, relax_ , but he’s confused as why she’s switched to his given name. (If he was more lucid, he might’ve taken note of the way she deliberated over his papers; remembered that Regis had to fudge his birth date M.E 707, instead of M.E. 711, eighteen not fourteen, but what does it really matter…) There’s hands and wires and tools in his mouth now, and he clutches the sheets of the bed to keep from screaming.

Slip, _just slip away_. _Please_. “Hold still, Cor.” He falls into an in-between state, and he’s grateful. The dreams (maybe memories), that devour him do little to lighten his turmoil though. It’s all teeth, wire, heavy breaths and he’s falling, falling deeper…( _hold still, Cor, let me show you how it works first!_ Strong arms embrace him, pulling him into a lap, _hold still_ , he wiggles a bit, giggling. One of the arms (strong, strong arms) reaches forward to fiddle with one of the toys, a shiny new trainset… Cor wants to reach out grab, play, _hold still! See you gotta set the battery first,_ the voice deep, but empty. _Make it move daddy_ … click, clack, the tiny compartment underneath the toy snaps for the batteries to be entered. _Ok, ok, but you gotta hold still_ … arms pulling against him, tighter (he can’t breathe), then one of the arms, snaking up to his face, fingers cracking open his mouth, his tiny mouth, _open up hold still_ … click, clack the arm tugs inside his mouth, breaking, cracking, snapping… a fist in front of his eyes holds a row of four teeth- strung together somehow, a tiny train of teeth. _Watch how they move, boy… isn’t it special… just for you…_ Cor watches the train of his teeth (his tiny teeth) circle around the track, whirring whirring, round round round in out in out…).

Later he’s back in bed (a different one from before, does it matter, does it really matter?), jaw wired shut, sling around his right arm (he’d forgotten about his collarbone, just a fracture). He’s trying to sleep but knows he won’t; not with the lullaby of moans, cries, slipping, dripping liquid. He squeezes his eyes shut.

There’s a button loose on his uniform jacket, he fiddles with it with his good arm. Pulls it, tugs slightly (hanging by a thread, a thread, a red red thread.)

They didn’t take his boots off. He doesn’t know why this bothers him so much, but it does. How can he sleep with his boots on? Cor shuffles his feet against the sheets, desperate. He has to get them off. Can’t. Not when he can barely lift his own head. There’s growing tension in his temple, his chest. He’s angry. But he lays down still, resigned to sleeplessness.

The button comes loose and he grips it hard in his hand. Tries to distract from the heat in his chest, the aching behind his eyelids, heavy, don’t cry _don’t cry_.

He’s fourteen (not eighteen), but still, he’s not a baby. He shouldn’t cry. (Didn’t cry when his daddy left him, why should he cry now?).

Tongue traces along the wire in his mouth, don’t cry, a stunted moan that doesn’t leave his mouth, _don’t cry, not out loud_. 

Cor just rubs his thumb against the button all night long (his shiny quarter), and doesn’t cry. No, he doesn’t cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cor reunites with a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I was gonna call this the last chapter, but it was too long, so I've decided to split it.  
> Regis will appear in the next one :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone whose commented so far! You've all helped me feel better about writing again <33
> 
> Sorry Cor, I keep hurting you... 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Cor can’t stand to lay anymore, his whole body is fidgety, on edge (his teeth itch, if that’s even possible).

Besides, it must be morning. And the man in the bed next to his (who’s moaned and gurgled throughout the night) has seemingly eliminated waste onto his already stained sheets, and Cor can’t bear to breathe through his mouth anymore (It’s clamped shut after all), so he thinks he’s within his rights to just up and leave.

Plus, he’s hungry. Hasn’t eaten at all since before the battle (was it yesterday?), and he’s already dreading the thought of liquid food for the next few weeks, but his stomach isn’t so discriminating. He thinks he’ll just look around, try and find the main base’s cafeteria if he has to.

Surprisingly, he’s left to his own devices. No one really questions the battered looking soldier wandering aimlessly for the base; everyone else is in a similar state. Cor doesn’t bother looking at faces though. Just keeps his eyes trained on his boots, the damn things that wouldn’t let him sleep.

Which is what finds him unawares and unresponsive to a shout called in his direction.

The boy’s almost leaning against the wall, finger casually tracing it as if to guide his directionless way. Still a bit unsteady on his feet. There’s a figure racing towards him though, another pair of boots in front of his (cleaner, not by much), and suddenly he’s enveloped in a pair of sweaty arms.

“Holy shit! Cor!”

Lilting into the wall, caught off balance by the hug, Cor feels warm hands cupping his neck, his face, pulling it up so that he’s level with the open, raw look of a familiar face.

“Clarus.” Cor’s voice sounds like shit; he can barely shape the ‘r’ sound in his mouth and it just comes out like a growl.

“Shit, kid. Holy shit.” Clarus is never one for eloquence. “We heard you got brought in, didn’t know how bad. Reggie’s been worried sick. Shit. You good, you ok? _Shit_.” The Shield brings his forehead roughly against Cor’s, his sweaty palms still around his neck, lightly brushing the backs of his ears.

“M’alright.” Again, it comes out strangled. His speech must be enough to worry Clarus, as the older man detaches from his embrace, arms gripping down to brace the boy’s shoulders (though careful of the right, with the sling), holding him back at a distance for appraisal. 

Cor knows he must look like pure shit, but Clarus’s expression certainly doesn’t make him feel any better. “Fuckin’ hell. What happened?”

“Fucked up my face.”

“I’d say… sheesh.” A gentle thumb brushes the boy’s jaw. Cor’s kept his lips relatively closed until this point, but a sudden manic idea makes him push his mouth open into a wicked smile. 

“M’all shiny now, see?”

Clarus looks faintly sick. Grips harder on Cor’s shoulders.

Something in the boy’s near-hysterical behavior makes him laugh out loud, short, but disturbing. The older man grabs him into a hug again, holds him tightly, and Cor leans into him, limply resting his head against the broad chest.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” The grumble of Clarus’s baritone tickles in Cor’s ear.

“Mmn. M’hungry.” Or thirsty… considering he’d have to drink his meals for the foreseeable future. He chuckles again.

“Yeah. We’ll getcha something. C’mon.”

Clarus doesn’t lessen his grip until they’re pushing through a metal doorway, several minutes’ walk from the hallway where they reunited. Cor knows its Regis’s private office in the base. He’d been there before, had spent far too many hours watching the Prince pace angrily, throw accusations at his father’s expense, yell, cry even; he always wore his heart right on his sleeve. Cor was there for moral support or something; Regis had always called him a _friend_ , but Cor’d be more comfortable with just Lieutenant. He hated the idea of getting special treatment. 

The Prince isn’t here now though. Cor doesn’t know why that calms him. Guess he was still hoping Regis wouldn’t see his beat up face. Be disappointed maybe.

He lets Clarus usher him onto the couch, releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His head feels empty. There’s no noise in here. No moaning, yelling. It's strange.

“Reggie’s in a meeting. With the higher ups. Big shit to talk, and all…” Clarus hovers nervously over Cor.

“The Prince is too soft for war.” Cor doesn’t know what makes him say it; his manic candor getting the better of him maybe, but he doesn’t regret it. For all the faces he’d replaced with Regis’s in his mind, he knows the real Prince could never habituate the body of a soldier. No, Cor’s glad he’d been kept sheltered from the fighting. From the sounds.

“Well, it’s probably for the best then. War’s over.” Clarus lets out a breath too, and with it his rigid stance softens, deflates. 

Cor just blinks.

“We’re pulling all forces back. It’s done. That’s why Reggie’s taking so damn long, negotiating the cease-fire and all…”

“Oh.” There’s not much more to say. They’d lost then.

_Huh._

“Hey Cor, I’mma get Wes to fetch you something to eat- err drink. Let me just send a quick message, alright?” Cor doesn’t know how long he sits there, on Regis’s couch, worrying about leaving his filth on the nice velvet surface, but what does it matter; this base would be abandoned, left behind. 

There’s a button in the boy’s hand still. He uncurls his fingers to see the impression it’s left on his palm. A small version of the Crownsguard crest. (He wonders if his face left an impression on that rock, if his sacrifice left an impression on this wasted war…).

Clarus is back and up in his face (too close). The boy hates the look he gets from the Shield; the way his eyes narrow on Cor’s jaw, that question carving the worry-lines of his brow: _are you ok?_ It makes Cor nauseous. Or maybe it’s still the concussion.

“How ‘bout you get cleaned up a bit, kid. Reggie’s got a shower in the bathroom, I’ve got some spare clothes for you, ok?”

“Sure.” It goes against his conduct to accept the partiality, but fuck it. He feels disgusting, besides. Not that he thinks shampoo and scented soaps will ever be enough to clean it all away. But he lets Clarus coax him up off the couch and into the bathroom.

It takes him the better part of five minutes to begin shedding off his filthy uniform. He shrugs out of the sling first, winces a bit as he stretches his collarbone. Hands shake slightly, the buttons down his front posing a strain, but he manages. Drops the coat on the floor (the very clean floor). Next his boots, laces pulled and chucked into the corner. He doesn’t remove his socks though (he’s got a weird thing with bare feet on floors, doesn’t like the cold contact, especially on tile; the other soldiers made fun of him for the shoes he wore in the showers at the barracks, but Cor doesn’t really fucking care) and he doesn’t care now, even though he knows Regis’s shower is likely spotless. He shucks off the pants and the t-shirt next, doesn’t want to look down and see his body (is it still his, this abused, battered thing?), and he knows there’s a mirror above the sink that he’s been avoiding, but sick curiosity wins out.

He’s never thought of himself as particularly good-looking, no. Not with all his awkward adolescence. But the face in the mirror takes him aback. His eyes first: red-rimmed, almost startlingly blue in the harsh light, outlined by blue-grey smudges, more around his right eye, leading down, down… His jawline is painted near-black, but patchy red along the edges. There’s a gash along his cheekbone that he hadn’t registered before, and a stitched up slice along his upper forehead (when had he gotten stitches, he can’t remember). Jutting out awkwardly, his jaw and chin aren’t in their proper place; more of an underbite that he hadn’t had before. It’s all swollen too, making his face seem… older, maybe, shaped all different from what he’s used to.

And that’s just it; this isn’t the face he’s used to.

He blinks to make sure it’s really him, sways his head right, then left. Drags a hand through his cropped hair. Clenches a fistful of it, suddenly angry. There’s flecks of dried blood flaking his skin, trailing along the corner of his mouth down his chin. Cor aggressively scrubs, to the point of aggravating his injured jaw. He huffs, then catches the glint of metal. He’d almost forgotten. Slowly, he parts his lips a bit; not a smile, a tentative grimace.

Fucking hell. He’d been trying not to think about his wired mouth, the cage around his teeth, because he knows if he thinks too much, it’ll freak him out to the point of panic (the nightmare loop that had played in his head all night of the prospect of working himself up with anxiety, having to vomit through the metal wire, choking, strangling in it, screaming but not making a sound, not breathing…). 

The wire glints in the reflection. Teeth locked away.

Cor pokes a finger in his gum-line, stretching his lip to get a better look at the injury sight. His half-splintered tooth and the one that’s missing. It hurts his jaw, but he doesn’t care. Even tugs a bit too hard, snapping his lips back with a flick.

Yeah, he’s not handsome (like Regis), and now he never will be. He isn’t bothered. Never really gave much thought about how he’d look when he’s older (if he gets to be). And he doesn’t want to think about what he looks like now, with his face wider, older-looking (doesn’t want to respond to that voice in his mind that whispers _blue eyes just like yer daddy, huh?)._

(How is it fair, this? There’s no hair on his chest but there’s tie-dye bruises, and who’s to care about the difference when it’s covered in Crownsguard blacks, covered in dirt and shit, covered in blood?)

There’s a knock on the door, and Cor almost slips on the tiles.

“You good, Cor?” Clarus tries to sound casual through the door.

The boy just supplies a grunted “yeah” and the reflection’s mouth moves too, so it must be him after all.

“Ok. The faucet handle needs to be pulled up first, then you can adjust the temperature. You need any help?”

“Nope.”

Cor makes his way into the shower finally, doing as Clarus instructed. The water is cold at first, makes him jump, nudging his bad shoulder onto the tile wall. He feels stupid. Blinking in the spray, staring down at his fucking socks. The water warms, but he doesn’t move back from the wall. In fact, he kind of shelters himself in the corner of the shower, face wedged against the cold tiles, arms huddled to his chest. Looking down, empty-eyed. It’s all he has, this body.

The water that falls off him is brown, red, muddy. Cor slides his socked toe against the grout of the tiles. Follows it to where his filth just pools down the drain, gone forever.

He knows he should stop being such a pussy and get on with it. Stop fucking moping around.

Cor detaches from the wall, stands under the pressure of water. For a moment, he lets it pool up in his mouth, leaking in slowly through the cracks in his teeth. Premeditated drowning. He spits it out quickly before it steals his breath.

The boy doesn’t bother with the soaps. As expected of Regis, they’re all ostentatiously scented, and Cor doesn’t know what _midnight charcoal_ is supposed to smell like, but he doesn’t want to inflict it on his body. No, he just scrubs himself with his fingernails, scratching, probably too roughly. Scraping his scalp seems to open up a hidden wound; fresh red droplets trickle on the tiles. A final moment to pee; gods, he’d been holding that in for a while (hadn’t gone since after his mouth was wired, but it’s a rare talent of his). And lastly he swallows a bit of the water running down his face. He’s fucking thirsty, after all.

Switching off the faucet and retreating from the shower, Cor glances the pile of clothes he’d left on the toilet seat. Clarus’s clothes, he thinks. And holding up the large sweatshirt confirms it. Cor barely dries himself with a towel before shrugging the oversized item over his aching collar.

He’s suddenly frantic to be dressed, he doesn’t know why. The chill on his skin, still wet, makes him feel prickly, exposed. Attempting the pants next, the boy knows they’re too long, but he pulls the drawstring tight and is just shifting his leg a bit to straighten the fabric when his wet sock slips on the tile and-

Cor falls backwards, crashing his hip on the toilet seat, and _whack_ , slamming his head on the edge of the shower.

He’s lost.

He’s back in the dirt, on the rocks. It’s buzzing, buzzing, ringing in his ears again. The heat, the dust. The sounds.

There are hands on his neck, on his face, sweaty. “D’nt touch mmnn…” He tries to tell the soldier (Jaharis, right?) not to move him yet, his jaw is broken, his mind’s all cracked, he can’t see…

“Easy, Cor. I got you.” The boy’s hands wrap around his head, protecting his skull, it hurts. “Easy, kid.”

Cor lets out a growl, it’s all he can do. The hands try to pry away his arms, but he tightens, huddling closer to himself, his body (it’s all he has, this broken thing).

“Cor, look at me. C’mon kid. Let me see your head.”

 _No_. Because if he moves his arms, the voice is gonna grab him by the mouth, forcing fingers through his cracked teeth, his ruined face. What more do they want to take from him?

“Cor!” His given name that he hates.

The boy whines in response. Is he Cor? The boy from the shitty neighborhood in Jejun, the one whose daddy left him on his tenth birthday (four years ago, is that all?), the one with the pink shoes that everyone laughed at, the one who walked home barefoot, over pavement and broken glass cuz he tossed them over the side of the overpass, the one whose name means _heart_ even though he’s sure his stopped working right a long time ago (four years, a lifetime, who knows?).

He drowns for a long time.

The voice that finally pulls him back is harder, firmer. “ _Lieutenant_.”

Cor peaks his head from his safeguard of arms.

“I need to check your injuries, Lieutenant.”

“Hurts.” He croaks (that can’t be his voice, raspy, vulnerable).

“I know. I just need you to let me see, alright?”

“Mmmn.”

Warm, clammy hands pull his arms away, then cradle his head, scooting around his side to get a look at the back of his scalp.

“You dizzy, Lieutenant? Nauseous?” Not particularly in this moment, he thinks. If Cor’s being honest, he just feels… hollow.

“I slipped.” It’s all coming back, bit by bit.

“Yeah. Sure did. Think you can get up, if I help you?” The deep voice is oddly comforting.

“Uh-huh.” Cor says, and feels the strong arms brace his middle as he’s lifted up and set on the toilet seat.

“Fuckin’ hell. Quit tryna clobber that head of yours, kid. Some of us still want you around. Look at me, follow my finger, yeah?”

Cor does, tracking the digit as his senses return, as does his recognition.

“Clarus.”

“Yeah,” A slight chuckle from the man, now with his fingers searching through Cor’s hairline. “Who’d you think I was?”

“The fucking tooth fairy.”

It’s not even particularly funny, but Clarus barks out a laugh. Cor does too, distorted trough his wired mouth.

“You’re gonna be the death of me kid. _Astrals_. Turn a bit. Yeah.” Cor lets the older man survey his condition with little complaint. Clarus is right to be cautious; two head injuries in quick succession were probably frowned upon.

“You with me? Good. Shit kid, I think I might have to take you back in to medical, just to be sure-”

“No.” Cor interrupts with solid fervor. “Please, Clarus. M’fine. Just… just let me rest here, alright? _Please_.”

“Ah, shit. What are we gonna do with you…” Clarus is kind. It’s something Cor admires about him. He’s strong, stubborn too, but he kindles a gentle nature, and Cor’s been on the receiving end of his thoughtfulness far too many times than he’s comfortable with.

Like now, how Clarus doesn’t say a word about his soaked socks as he peels them off the boys feet, transfers the dry ones on quickly. Lets Cor lean into him a bit longer than necessary before leading him back to the couch. 

And how he pushes the boy’s wet hair from his forehead, whispering _shit_ and praying that one day his future son isn’t as reckless as this stupid brave boy.

Cor nods off to the thought of the war; lost, abandoned. Tries not to conjure up the small, scrawny child (whose name means _heart_ , even still) who hunted the streets in the cold December air for hours, days maybe, before abandoning his namesake for good. 

Clarus’s sweatshirt is far too big, but he doesn’t mind. It keeps him all together; arms, chest. Still aching a bit, this body of his. A soldier’s body. He knows he’ll get a medal. Knows that they won’t be counting the hairs on his chest before tightening the thing round his neck, but does it really fucking matter?

There’s fingers in his hair and he’s tired. And Regis’s couch is soft on his cheek.

And for once, it’s fucking quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cor and Regis reunite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so this is the final chapter of this one! Thanks to all who've commented <3   
> (excuse my lame latin words, thanks google translate) 
> 
> I might to a second part for a series (one about Cor when he's a bit older)
> 
> I just can't stop thinking about this boy and all he's been through....
> 
> Enjoy!

Dreams filter in quick succession. Cor can’t really grasp what he sees; memories, weird scenarios conjured through exhaustion, each flitting through his mind like a slideshow. Not connected, but all sharing a similar feeling: warmth, shelter. He knows he’s safe, even as he sleeps.

Voices murmur in the background. He can kinda tell the difference real-life sounds make. Like how he senses a warm shadow at the edge of all his dreamscapes. Knows he’s being watched over.

The muttering distracts him though; can’t quite sever him from his sleep, but it slips through the cracks. 

“Godsdamn… why’d…leave him out of your…”

“… slipped… I didn’t… don’t know what…look for… seems ok…”

“Still… check him over… CT scan back in Insomnia… his head…”

Cor’s brain can’t currently piece together all the words, but he handpicks a few and fabricates a bizarre dream to make sense of them: his head being laid on a super-market conveyor belt, the clerk attempting to scan his earlobe for a price. What cost, will he ever know?

Maybe his dream is just fucky enough to clue him in on his lack of reality; he feels his body again, the softness of the couch, awake, sort of.

“Hey there, young man. How you feeling?” There’s a new shadow looming over him, but Cor registers the smooth tone immediately.

“Wes.” Gods, his mangled mouth butchers the name.

“That’s right. C’mon sit up for me a bit, son.” Cor rubs his palms in his eyes as he shifts to a sitting position. He crunches his hands in his hair before turning to look at Weskham, who’s now sitting on the couch’s edge, smiling sadly.

“Brought you something. Think you’re good to swallow?” Wes asks.

Cor nods. He’d been hungry; still is, just forgot.

The dark-skinned man puts something in Cor’s hands. His vision’s still hazy with sleep. 

“Your favorite, right?”

The boy stares down at the carton, chocolate milk, with a straw. Oh. Yeah, he likes that. Cor blinks quickly; fucking hell he wasn’t about to cry over some stupid fucking chocolate milk. He nods, coughs. “Yeah.” 

“Take it nice and slow. I can get you something to help if you’re having trouble. A syringe maybe.”

Cor just sticks the thing in his mouth, past his slightly numb lips, positions the straw so that its angled towards the back of his teeth, pulls, swallows. It’s good. A little difficult. But good.

He barely makes note as Weskham asks him a bunch of questions; routine one’s he’s heard about six times already, just to make sure his head’s alright. Agrees to get the scan when he can, just to be sure. He’s distracted by the drip of milk that consistently escapes from the corner of his mouth; keeps trying to catch it with his tongue before realizing it’s trapped behind wire and teeth. Instead he scrunches his cheek as much as he’s able, curving it, but not stopping the flow.

“Easy, young man,” Wes laughs. “Remember your manners now.” He procures a napkin, dabs the boy’s face.

Feeling like an idiot, Cor grumbles. “Eh, don’t pout, baby-face. Just makes you looks puffier.” The boy swats away Wes’s hand, but it’s in good humor. He tries to hide his swollen smirk.

“There we go. Got you some painkillers, and some supplements to add to your drinks,” Wes scootches next to him on the couch, guides his head onto the pillow. “But we can try those later, yeah? Rest up now.”

Cor’s grateful to Weskham. They’d grown close, despite Cor’s resistance to affection. Not that they were overly touchy-feely, but he can crack jokes to Wes without feeling like might be court-martialed. Sure, he calls him _young man_ and _son_ , but not in a patronizing way, it’s playful he supposes. They get along. And Wes doesn’t bullshit. Never treats him with pity.

(It’s not pity, no, that made Wes’s heart catch in his chest at the news, the pressure in his throat, nearly sick at the thought, and it wasn’t pity that carried him across half the base looking for the boy’s favorite milk, and he doesn’t know the name for the feeling but if he had to guess it might be _fury_.) 

Cor lets oblivion take him again.

Time passes, shadows shift, voices echo, then leave. He feels a presence, even so far away. A solid entity at the back of his head (he’d fallen asleep on his left side, front facing the couch cushions).

And a voice. A rhythm of words, repeated, again. And again.

His nose picks up a spicy fragrance. _Midnight charcoal_ , maybe. The voice continues.

With consciousness slowly returning, the boy listens.

“ _Mutuari…. Liberi…. Domum…. Divas_ ….”

Cor’s Old Lucian sucks, but he can recognize a few of the words. 

And he recognizes the voice, expressive, broken. A sob at his back.

“You’re too emotional, you know?” Cor whispers, interrupting the prayer (or the crying, or both).

A sniffle from behind him. “Suppose it’s just another of my flaws.”

“No.” The boy says, doesn’t know why. He turns.

There’s a parting of lips, words formed “I’m-”

“Don’t.” Cor insists. Because he won’t hear it. Not now when Regis’s face says it all.

Green eyes take in the boy’s condition, open, _pained_. Cor likes to think Regis is easy to read, but even so, he’s a godsdamn poem. He can’t seem to look away from those eyes, from that earnest, exposed expression that bleeds confession, regret, apology _I’m sorry I’m sorry, I would take it all from you. If I could._

Regis’s emotion might save him, he thinks. (He really would take it all. If he could.)

“Does it hurt?” Are the words the Prince choses to say.

“Yeah.” Cor’s nothing if not honest. He doesn’t know if his face is easy to read, but he makes up for it by being blunt.

“I have an excellent oral surgeon back in Insomnia. I’ll set you up with an appointment. Not to worry, dear. We’ll get this sorted.” Regis brushes Cor’s hair back. The boy catches the peppery scent again.

“Thanks.” He means it at least.

“It’s the least I can do,” Code for _I’m sorry_. “Would you like to send a message, maybe your mother? I’ve got a telephone on my desk there.”

Cor thinks about it, shrugs. “Just send her a postcard of my x-ray.”

The Prince scoffs. “People care about you, you know?”

Oh, he knows. And he hates it. Too much fuss over one fucked up city-boy. The godsdamn special treatment he hates. No, he won’t call to his mama crying, saying _look at the mess I got in_ , no, he’d just fucking live with it. It’s all he can do.

Regis is on his knees next to the couch, hand perched on the armrest, fingers in the boy’s cropped hair. He looks weary, beaten (in a different way from Cor, but bruises weren’t the only indicator of damage done).

“We lost.” Cor says. Because it’s been the thing constantly in the corner of his mind, a final souvenir from all this bullshit.

Regis sighs. The winds of Lucis shift too. “Indeed.”

_I’m glad_ , Cor doesn’t say. _It’s over and I’m glad._

He’s a fourteen year old vet with a busted jaw and more trauma then he knows how to deal with. If victory was to be claimed, would they brand him _hero_ and absolve themselves of his exploitation? (they still might; he’ll likely get his medal after all).

Regis opens his mouth again-

“Say you’re sorry and I’ll clock you in your jaw and we can both go see that surgeon of yours together, yeah?” It’s the most he’s uttered all at once and his mouth can’t quite shape the words as quickly as he likes, but his point is delivered.

Regis chuckles. But the lines around his eyes speak _grief_.

“Quit moping,” Cor scoots his body further down the couch, crosses his arms. “Your couch is comfortable.”

“I know,” Regis sounds wistful as he runs a hand along the velvet.

The boy grumbles a bit, tries to get into a more comfortable position. His head feels heavy, and his collarbone is acting up. But he’s here, on this fancy couch, away from the sounds of dying, away from the frontlines, and the Prince weeps for him, and they’ll call him a hero, so it really can’t be all bad, can it?

Silence lingers. Cor breathes in the spicy scent. It’s not so bad really. 

“Regis.” His voice rasps. Deeper than before, older (maybe he’d never sound the same again. It’s better that way).

The prince quirks his head.

“Thank you.” It sounds stupid, especially with his croaky speech. But its all he has to give.

Regis nods.

What more can he give (that hasn’t been taken)?

The prince kneels still, fingers in the boy’s hair, begins his murmurings again. Perhaps that’s all he has to give too (he’d give it all, if he could). Cor identifies his words this time. An old Lucian prayer.

The worship plea to Bahamut from the wars of old. Said to be the evensong of mothers in every household across the homeland. Even still.

_Lord above…. Borrow the children, but bring them home…. May Lucis lend their bodies to battle…. In favor of your grace…. Safeguard their smiles…. Bring them home._

Cor goes back to rest.

And later, home.

Would he ever know the cost? Of his wasted boyhood? He really doesn’t fucking care, and he doesn’t want anyone else to care either. (They do; it’s in the little things: a subordinate who says _don’t look, kid_ , the calculated rage of an advisor who watches adults place a child on the frontlines, the prayer whispered by a Prince with too much emotion (it’s not a flaw, it will save him, save them all) _every damn night_ since the boy got called to battle, the little things, an oversized sweatshirt, a shield in its own right, doing what little it can to protect this child from harm, to bring him home.)

But what is he to deserve it: scrawny, spit-fire, that Leonis kid with too much rough-hewn talent and the audacity to do something with it. He was initiated into the guard at thirteen, and said _thank you_ when they shipped him off to war.

And when he stands on a podium, blue-black face never gonna catch the right lighting, he says _thank you_ as they place the godsdamn medal around his neck. It glints in the sunlight. Shiny.

(Later they’d wonder why he didn’t smile when King Mors presented his honors and shook his hand. Even if his mouth wasn’t wired, he wouldn’t give them that, no.)

What more could Cor give; a boy with a broken smile, his childhood borrowed (not stolen), because he was willing, is still willing? If he starts to think of it all ( _the cost)_ , he’d just damage his damn head some more. And gods know it doesn’t need another beating.

All he’s sure of is that he has to keep going forward. There’s no other choice, really. What use is there crying over all this shit? His mouth will heal, his body will grow, still.

It’s all he’s ever known how to do (it’s why he’s survived this long, maybe; he’s lucky, remember?). _Just keep moving forward_. Even through blood-soaked carnage, even barefoot. He can’t look back because if he did he’d see the scrawny boy (wet face in the December chill, broken, with too much _love_ , that fucking knife-twist that he won’t ever feel again, no, never), and even if he’s got no hair on his chest, and his third molars are still open, he can still carry a sword, he can fight, and he will.

Even if they’ve lost. 

And maybe he’ll never get it, why it hurts so much to _not think about it_. It’s the echo, _what could have been_ , the thing that eats him every day even against all his resistance (your heart still beats, doesn’t it?).

This little thing; this _impression_. Reminding him all the time. 

So he has to keep moving, keep fighting, or his namesake will finally catch up to him.

(War contradicts, so does love. Just ask the boy whose name means _heart_.)


End file.
